


Gentle is the night

by erde (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Horniness, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 18:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20019289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/erde
Summary: Tony Stark, a former CEO turned farmer, doesn't have any plans for the weekend other than hanging out at the local bar. Then, veteran Steve Rogers makes a stop in town.





	Gentle is the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hornqvist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hornqvist/gifts).



> Quite some time ago, Khang shared with me an idea he had after seeing one of my edits. It was very sweet, and while I wasn't able to do the idea justice, I still wanted to write a little something inspired by it.
> 
> Title from Stop Where You Are by Corinne Bailey Rae's, sort of.

It's barely eight o'clock, but it's almost a full house already. Fridays tend to be on the side of crowded; it's the reason why he comes here instead of staying home, after all. He thinks better with real-life ambience sounds, bits and pieces that remind him of life in the city. Conversations that pique his interest for short intervals, contagious laughter from the neighboring tables, nice enough music. Not the kind he usually listens to, but it fits the place. It might even fit the Tony who left it all behind and built a new life for himself from the ground up, just for a little while. And the food? More than decent. Better than anything he could whip up in the time it took him to drive here, in any case.

He's eating one of the specialties of the house and doodling the beginnings of an idea he'll finish developing back home and then send to Pepper, when the door swings open. He looks up in time, more of a reflex than a conscious choice, and sees him. Blond, strapping, handsome. Mr. Congratulations On Your Face stands where he is for a second of two, like he isn't sure he made the right call by coming inside or by choosing this particular town to make a stop. Tony smiles to himself and takes a sip from his sugary sweet virgin drink. Does he know the feeling.

_What's a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?_

It would be beneath him to use a trite line like that, but he's curious. There's got to be a story behind it. There usually is. But sometimes the only thing he wants is warm food and a little company in the form of other patrons minding their own business, so he stays put, pockets his design, and nabs another napkin, going for something simpler this time. In the margins, he adds spur-of-the-moment notes in quick, geometrical strokes. A language of his own making.

Liz leans over the counter. She's mixing something without bothering to look at what she's doing because she doesn't need to. "Ain't that your type?"

"Isn't he everybody's?"

"I swear I just saw you smile."

Tony smirks. "Free country."

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her go and draw the newcomer in before he changes his mind and decides that this isn't his kind of scene after all, which makes Tony wonder, in turn, what his usual scene is. Curiosity, when it comes to him, easily becomes a compulsion to zero in and assess and dissect until all that's left is component parts and understanding made intimately familiar. Bad habits, all around.

Still, he risks a glance. Mr. Wholesome Good Looks—he's going to need a name before he keeps running unchecked with this—has this all-American air to him, apple pie and country music and a pulling-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps kind of determination to the brief set of his jaw. He also seems to be the type too polite to leave once he's already placed an order, and Liz, shit-stirrer at work, slides his beer over the opposite side of the bar top, that is, right next to Tony. She gives Tony a look that seems to spell _Now it's on you,_ and then she leaves.

"Thanks," the stranger replies. A pleasant, deep voice to go with the aforementioned good looks, and if that was the only thing Tony was looking for, he would be doing something about it right about now, turning on the charm that once served him so well during galas, press conferences, stockholders' meetings, a past life. For now, he's content enough with aesthetic appreciation. Perhaps he's gotten older, more guarded. There was life before Afghanistan and there is now, one year later.

"Oh, is that—" It's the stranger's voice, closer now, and Tony looks up to watch his perfect mouth go, "I didn't mean to intrude."

 _Yes, you did,_ Tony almost quips, amused. Instead, he smiles at him. "A prototype. I design things for fun and run a farm for a living. Or the other way around, sometimes."

The stranger laughs. He's got a beautiful smile and eyes so blue the rest of the world seems to fall away a little, forgotten. "I'm Steve."

"Tony."

They shake hands. Steve's grip is solid, warm, grounding. "I sketch things sometimes. On the road," he says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder as if to encompass every road he's been on, which Tony shouldn't find as cute as he does, probably. "May I?"

"Be my guest," Tony says, and Steve follows the curve Tony's drawn over the napkin, halfway to a helix, the vague shape of mock-up circuitry edging along underneath.

"It looks like some sort of screen," he says, framing the drawing with his fingers.

"Well, you're not wrong. It's a flexible display." It isn't careless of him to mention it, even to someone he's just met. The research exists. A few prototypes, though rare, have been talked about in public. Implementation at a large scale, that's the tricky part.

"There are things like that?"

Tony smiles. "There could be."

"Wow," Steve says, soft, and a thrill goes down Tony's spine because Steve is looking at him now, probably without meaning to. He catches himself, lowers his long eyelashes, and Tony's gone, gone, gone.

"I showed you mine, so by the law of reciprocity . . ." Tony says, voice husky only half on purpose. Maybe it's too soon for double entendres, but Steve's reaction is precious and well worth the risk—he huffs a laugh, faint color on his cheeks, and produces a small notebook out of the pocket of his leather jacket.

"Nothing as fancy, I'm afraid. You seem to be all about style, while I—"

"While you're all heart," Tony says, because he's already flipping through the notebook and marveling at the scenes Steve's captured in pencil and watercolor, sometimes even in the blue ink of a regular pen. There are people in all walks of life, caught in the midst of laughing, walking, and plain old living. Every picture is vivid, colorful, full of small life mementos. "So, you're an artist."

"I draw things for fun, you could say," Steve says, crinkles around his eyes. Tony barely catches the end of it; the place's gotten livelier by the time he tunes in to his surroundings. The band that's playing now, townwide famous, tends to attract a crowd wherever it goes.

"Want to get some fresh air?" Tony suggests. Their fingers brush when he returns the notebook, and the jolt that follows, the trickle of warmth that goes down Tony's chest, is a little surprising but wholly welcome.

It's tricky to reach the entrance, and Steve presses, light, one hand against the small of Tony's back. "Not to lose each other in the commotion," Steve explains, and his voice, a warm puff of air close to Tony's ear, makes him feel funny, like his drink went straight to his head after all. Impossible, but next to Steve, it almost seems like everything's got a fair chance of being real.

 _You're thinking with your dick, you idiot,_ Tony tells himself, but he doesn't do anything about it. He damn well should. He should be getting a last name, at least, something that JARVIS can look up in the meantime. He should be stepping up his game, but the small voice that often tells him he should make a run for it and hide even though nothing's the matter is silent at the moment.

The air is cool, pleasant against his skin, and the moon is up high in the sky, a perfect circle. He can still hear the music from outside, as well as the audience singing along. The bass thrums against his spine and inside his chest like an itch he can't scratch.

"Smoke?" Tony says, jittery all of a sudden, even though he doesn't keep cigarettes on him or anything of the sort.

"Nah," Steve says, leaning against the wall. He's got a Rebel-Without-a-Cause thing going on right now; it's in the way he carries himself and how he's honest-to-god beautiful. It's in the quiet sadness around his eyes, too. Tony swallows a sigh. He knows what he's doing. He's building him up in his head. It's not something he should do, but he welcomes the distraction.

"Yeah, me neither." He rubs his knuckles against the middle of his chest, distracted. Even if Steve had been a smoker, Tony wouldn't have been able to take a single drag. Decreased lung capacity, the price of getting out alive from that shithole. "So, what do you really do if you aren't an artist?"

"Soldier. Used to. Maybe," Steve says with a small smile. In that moment, he strikes Tony as younger than he looks, and the thought makes his stomach feel tight as a goddamn drum. _It could've been him on that humvee,_ he thinks, and then, _Shut the fuck up._

"I'm not keen on going back, but I don't know what else I'm good for. Meanwhile, I'm just . . ." Steve is gesturing to his left now, pointing to a road grime-covered, seen-better-days bike parked a few feet from where they stand. Tony, however, can spot the diamond in the rough. It's a beautiful thing he would love to get his hands on until it's left sparkling clean.

"You're good at that, though," Tony says, pointing to the notebook Steve is still holding in one hand.

"Oh, that," Steve says, and the way his face lights up just now? Tony would be willing to go to great lengths to see him smile like that again. "I always wanted—I'm not sure it matters, really, I don't think I could make a living out of it."

"You never know. My best friend's Air Force," Tony says, seemingly out of nowhere.

Steve raises his eyebrows at that, that old rivalry at work. "Is he planning to get out?"

"Nah, he's a career man. But me? I used to be a contractor. Made gadgets. Of the deadly variety," Tony says, and he doesn't know why he's being so candid about it. He rationalizes it on the spot—if Steve's been sent by someone who wants to know what Tony is up to these days or what Resilient's R&D long-term plans are, then he already knows all there is to know. And if he hasn't been sent by anyone, well, sometimes you open up to complete strangers, people you don't think you'll ever see again, even though he wants to see Steve again, he wants—

Thing is, he goes with his gut.

"We were making a demonstration. Everything went smoothly right until we were ambushed. I took shrapnel to the chest. Lived to tell the tale. Thanks to my bestie, may I add. He was right behind and had me airlifted out of there," he says, forcefully nonchalant as if none of that mattered, as if he didn't have dreams where he bleeds to death alone in the desert, as if his life hadn't gotten upended because of it.

Steve takes a step forward, wrinkles set deep in his forehead. "Are you okay?"

A tickle goes from Tony's chest to his groin. He likes the undercurrent of worry there, as well as Steve's voice pitched low. He likes everything about him. "Yeah, sure. Don't worry about it. My point being, now I have a farm and I design other kinds of things on the side. It can be done."

Steve smiles at him. "Yeah, I guess it can."

They get very quiet after that, and no one moves an inch. "I don't want to presume," Steve whispers even as he's leaning in, eyes set on Tony's lips, and the thrum of the music is still there, tickling Tony's nape as if he were on a military truck running over uneven terrain, but his fingers are already curling around Steve's arm of their own accord, pulling him in, and then he can't think about that anymore.

It's sweet, the way Steve kisses him, cupping his face, brushing his thumb along his cheek. Tony isn't used to tenderness, especially not coming from a stranger, so he makes it a smidge dirtier, and Steve answers in kind, opening his mouth for Tony's tongue.

"The farm is close, on the outskirts of town," Tony says once they part, eyes unfocused. His chest is heaving but he's lit up inside, keyed up, in the need to do something.

He takes a breath and looks up at Steve. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth a little swollen. Perfect. "Yeah," Steve says, eyes half-lidded, and then they're on the move.

The bike goes on the back of Tony's truck and Steve rides shotgun. His hands are on his knees, not loose, not caught in a death grip, just there, and he's looking out of the window. "I don't usually do this."

"It's fine," Tony says, because it is. "I figured you didn't have a place to crash, so it's fine if that's the only thing you feel like doing, catching up on some sleep. Being out there, it must be rough." He would be lying if he said he wasn't expecting more, that he didn't _want_ more, but he likes him. He likes Steve and in the end it doesn't matter if this is all that comes out of it, Tony giving him a hand.

"No," Steve says, all too fast. "No, I want—"

When Tony turns to see him, Steve's eyes are hard, his jaw set. "I mean, life's short, right?" He tries for a laugh, but his Adam's apple bobs up and down like he's struggling with something far beyond the here and now. We all have our own demons. 

"Yeah," Tony agrees, and tentatively, not at all, Steve covers Tony's knee with his hand. He could veer off the road, let things unfold under that full moon. He can picture it so easily, climbing into the back seat, the flush on Steve's face spreading down his chest, the way he would throw his head back as Tony takes him in his mouth, but he chooses to keep driving. "It's not far," he says, and his voice comes out hoarse, but it's the truth, they're almost there.

Meanwhile, Steve's hand is deliciously heavy on his thigh. He breathes in and out at the feel of Steve's fingers running along the side seam of his jeans. "Not far if I manage not to crash the car," Tony says, and Steve laughs, hand sliding back to his kneecap, where it's only a margin safer.

"Wouldn't want that to happen," Steve says, arching one eyebrow. He begins to draw circles on Tony's knee, pressing the pad of his thumb against the fabric and the muscle underneath.

"I'm not so sure I buy that," Tony says, turning his attention back to the road because he doesn't have a choice. Still, he can't help smiling even though his pants are uncomfortably tight. He's a little shit, his soldier. Tony likes him a whole lot.

Tall corn stalks appear on the horizon, and it's not long until he's saying, "Home sweet home." It's quiet in the car, and again, no one's moving. Maybe his heart does a full swoop when he notices the way Steve's looking at him, but that's about it.

"Right," Steve says belatedly. Before he gets out, he lets his hand fall from where it was perched with a slow, dragging motion, and Tony misses the contact so much, he almost tells him to hurry back inside.

"Wow," Steve says once they're both out of the car. "I was picturing something different."

"Smaller? A couple of hens running around, an old barn kind of thing?" Tony says with a smirk.

"Kinda, yes. It's great, though," he says, taking it all in, and Tony can almost picture Steve ditching him in favor of filling the pages of his notebook with more sketches.

"You'll want to step back. We have a sprinkler irrigation system, a more efficient use of water," Tony says, and since Steve asks about it, he loses himself in technical details with an ease that should be embarrassing. "Seriously, I'm an engineer by trade. Don't indulge me like this or I'll never shut up."

"I like hearing you talk," Steve says, and Tony bites the inside of his cheek not to straight up beam at him.

"A flatterer, are you?"

Steve smirks at that and gives him a little shrug. "I'm in the habit of saying what I think."

The sprinkles go off as they're making their way to the house, but they are careful not to get wet. Even then, fine droplets hit their skin as if they were close to the ocean, standing by the shore, and it's here that Steve wraps an arm around Tony's waist and pulls him closer.

If their first kiss was like sugar at melting point, this one feels full of spice. There's teeth and stealing each other's breath as they go, a kind of urgency that wasn't there before. _Don't make me fall for you,_ Tony thinks, but what he actually says is, "I do have a couch and a bed and everything."

Steve smiles, ducks his head. "Sorry."

"Good god, don't be. Come," Tony says, taking Steve's hand in his own.

They manage to make it past the door before they go at it again, fumbling for the lights and missing, stumbling in the dark. "Couch it is," Tony says because that's closer, and they flop down with Steve on top of him, pressing his mouth against Tony's throat, kissing his jaw.

And then, an indignant hiss, followed by a meow.

"What's that?" Steve asks.

"My cat," Tony says, arching his back to reach for the lamp behind him. "Butterfingers, meet Steve. Steve, meet Butterfingers."

Butterfingers, who has never in his life learned to take a hint, climbs on the couch with them and demands attention, and even though Steve is half-sprawled over Tony and half-hard against Tony's leg, he finds it in him to laugh and scratch his pet behind the ears. Butterfingers purrs because he's a sell-out, albeit one with good taste. "Nice to meet you," he says, and then, to Tony, "Butterfingers?"

"He broke many a thing back in the day, climbing on anything he could get his paws on."

"I see." Steve's smile is small and sweet, and the silence that follows is comfortable, almost domestic. Tony feels like he ought to be frustrated at the turn of events, but try as he might, he can't. He still has a beautiful man draped on top of him, so he counts it as a win.

"I'm glad your friend saved you," Steve says in a small voice as he strokes Butterfingers' back. "I lost my best friend during my last tour. I tried to reach him in time, but I couldn't, I—"

"I'm sorry, Steve," Tony says, meaning it. He threads his fingers in Steve's hair, and Steve sighs at the touch.

"If it had been the other way around, I would've wanted him to live his life and not look back, but—I'm sorry," he says with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Not what you signed up for."

"I'm pretty sure I signed up for spending time with you and I'm doing just that. Lucky me," Tony whispers, still running his fingers through Steve's hair.

Steve lets out a puff of breath, mouth slack, and closes his eyes shut. "I'd get it, if you wanted me to go now," he says, half-hearted, and Tony wouldn't push and let him go if Steve truly looked like he wanted to leave, if he wasn't curled against Tony's body like he's starved for warmth.

"I was thinking I could give you a tour of the farm tomorrow, if you're interested. We have plenty of things around to see. And since you're on a farm and all, it would be a shame not to stay for breakfast, at least. Fresh, organic produce? That's a thing here," Tony says, eyebrows raised.

Steve chuckles. "I'd love to," he says, and then, as if he couldn't bear to keep up appearances any longer, he sighs again and tucks his face in the crook of Tony's neck.

In answer, Tony presses his cheek against Steve's temple. "What was his name?"

"Bucky," Steve says after a while. Butterfingers decided to jump ship back when Tony was trying to sell Steve on the virtues of taking a look at the farm come morning, so now Steve's hand is free and running up and down Tony's arm.

"Tell me more about him," Tony says, and Steve does.

They swap stories. Regrets. Tony tells him about the young airmen that died that day, about how he remembers all of their names— _Jimmy, Pratt, Ramírez_ —about how he often wonders why it wasn't him, instead.

"I'm glad you're here," Steve says, squeezing his hand, and Tony gives him a peck that lingers without growing into anything more.

"I'm glad you're here, too," he replies, and it makes Steve smile against Tony's skin. They stay in silence for a long while, and then Tony drifts off for a couple of minutes at most, or at least he swears he does, but it's already morning by the time he opens his eyes. Thin stripes of sunlight touch them, the tip of Steve's shoulder, his long fingers curled around the middle of Tony's chest, the crown of his head.

Tony smiles and waits for him to wake up. He entertains himself by counting his breaths, guarding his sleep. Even if there's a goodbye headed their way sooner rather than later, even though Tony's already too caught up in him for his own good, it feels nice to do this for Steve without wanting anything in return.

Before long, one hundred breaths later, Steve stirs. Tony can feel the tension running through his body, the good ol' fight-or-flight response, but then that's gone, and wonder of wonders, the moment he realizes where he is and looks at Tony, his whole face lights up.

Tony squints a little, finds himself smiling back. He thinks about asking Steve how he slept and what he wants for breakfast, whether he would mind staying for a while longer. But all of that will have to wait. Steve's fingers are skimming across the waistband of Tony's jeans, teasing a shiver. He seems to have a question of his own, right there.

What else is Tony supposed to do? He nods, smiling wider, and that's all that's needed. Steve braces his arms at Tony's sides, and Tony commits to mind the flutter of Steve's eyelashes as he leans in and kisses him honey-sweet, spicy-hot.

It's a sight he could get used to.


End file.
